R doesn't remember getting separated from the airport hive. He doesn't remember how he got here or when he picked up the thing in his right pocket - lighter, some instinct says when his fingers slide over the surface - and he guesses he should be panicking about now. Even though he knows the answer, he waits to see if anything, anything at all, will swell up to replace the flatline of his un-life. Nothing. Like his pulse, frozen in shriveled veins, it's missing.
It isn't the first time things have smeared away. Probably won't be the last. Hard to get too worried about it when you're a dead boy walking, when the biggest concern is which which foot do I shuffle with first and I hope I get the brains today because that one-armed janitor keeps beating me to it. After the first few test groans rattle and wheeze out of his chest, R has to come the conclusion that he's the only corpse here and he'll have to either wander back to the airport or keep staggering around until he meets some new dead people to bump shoulders with.
His head listing to the side, R lurches to his feet only to trip over the side of the bed and bounce off the wall with one shoulder before he faces the door. Doors he remembers. Doorknobs too. Sometimes he even remembers how to reach out, like right now, and turn the knob, his gray hand slapping uselessly against the metal for a few long seconds before he gets his stiff fingers curled. (It's easier to just bust through a window with the other zombies. There's something unspeakably comforting about losing yourself in mindless numbers).
R can be found standing dead center in the middle of the hallway, staring up at the glowing Medical Center sign with his mouth sagging open, like it's the most interesting thing in the world, or he can be nosing at the warning sign at the front, splattered with what might be blood.
Actually, he might be giving it a test lick. It's...disappointing.
[ R's wandering around the compound, creeping it up as a zombie. He won't be attacking, but he will haltingly talk if spoken to ]
R | Warm Bodies || brackets or prose
It isn't the first time things have smeared away. Probably won't be the last. Hard to get too worried about it when you're a dead boy walking, when the biggest concern is which which foot do I shuffle with first and I hope I get the brains today because that one-armed janitor keeps beating me to it. After the first few test groans rattle and wheeze out of his chest, R has to come the conclusion that he's the only corpse here and he'll have to either wander back to the airport or keep staggering around until he meets some new dead people to bump shoulders with.
His head listing to the side, R lurches to his feet only to trip over the side of the bed and bounce off the wall with one shoulder before he faces the door. Doors he remembers. Doorknobs too. Sometimes he even remembers how to reach out, like right now, and turn the knob, his gray hand slapping uselessly against the metal for a few long seconds before he gets his stiff fingers curled. (It's easier to just bust through a window with the other zombies. There's something unspeakably comforting about losing yourself in mindless numbers).
R can be found standing dead center in the middle of the hallway, staring up at the glowing Medical Center sign with his mouth sagging open, like it's the most interesting thing in the world, or he can be nosing at the warning sign at the front, splattered with what might be blood.
Actually, he might be giving it a test lick. It's...disappointing.
[ R's wandering around the compound, creeping it up as a zombie. He won't be attacking, but he will haltingly talk if spoken to ]